by Brand, Max
"The day'll come when you'll have sorrow in your home for keeping this girl here," he announced gloomily. "The day'll come when you'll wish you'd sent her off."
"She's been away to school, man, but nothing changed her."
"Sometime, Valentine, she'll find a man that'll be her master. Mark me when I say it. And when that man comes, she'll go to him and foller him whether he be good or bad. If she could find a hoss that would never be safe under the saddle, she'd never want to ride nothing but that hoss, I figure; and when she finds a man that won't pay no attention to her, she'll be following that man, Valentine, you mark my word. She'll love the man that laughs at her; she'll follow the man that runs from her; she'll kneel to the man that beats her." He paused again.
For Morgan Valentine had shifted so that the moonlight struck abruptly across his face, painting the wrinkles and his frown black and making the rest deadly white. He stood with his jaw set, and through the shadow of his brows the eyes glittered. He spoke nothing, but Gus Norman saw enough to make him wince back a step. He put out his hand in a conciliatory gesture.
"I don't wish her no unhappiness and I don't speak out of no malice. I ain't come to talk hard, neither, nor to make no threats. But I'm here to put my case in front of you. You got a big reputation around these parts, Valentine, for being a square shooter. Put yourself in my boots and figure out what you'd do. My folks are a tolerable tempery lot, and they're a pile cut up about this fracas; but I'm holding 'em back. I don't want 'em to run foul of Charlie; most of all I don't want 'em to run foul of you. Think over what I've said. Good night."
He turned on his heel, strode across the veranda, went down the steps, and once more sent his horse up the road.
Before he disappeared into the moon haze, Valentine was walking up and down the veranda with a short, quick step. And of all the people in the world only his wife, no doubt, could have read the meaning behind his manner. Only his wife did know it; for the loud voice of Norman had wakened her in her room just over the veranda, and she had gone to her window. From it she had overheard the conversation, and now she knew the meaning of that pacing, that short, quick, decisive step. She gathered her dressing gown about her, put her feet in slippers, and hurried downstairs. Her husband was coming in just as she reached the lowest range of the stairs, and she paused with her hand on the rail. It was a lovely hand in spite of her forty-five years and the hard labor which had been hers during the early part of her married life. Her slippered foot, too, would have been the pride of a debutante; and the dressing robe fluttered about her in graceful lines. She was still beautifully formed; her skin retained its glow and purity of texture. But cover her hands with winter gloves, her feet with boots, her body with a heavy coat, and Maude Valentine became a homely farmer's wife. There had been a fine spirit in her face, but never beauty; and now that the grace and hope of youth was gone there remained only the lines of the unloved wife and the unheeded mother of two wild sons and one headstrong daughter.
"Are you up, Mother?" he asked from the hall beneath.
"I couldn't sleep, Morgan."
"Read a bit; then you'll sleep."
"I wish to talk to you just a little minute, Morgan," she replied. Her voice had the gentleness of long sorrow.
"Come on into the library, then."
They went into the big room ranged high with books, for John's library had been brought here after his death, and it was a rare collection. How few had been opened since his hand last touched them!
"Are you warm, Mother?"
She looked up at him quickly as she slipped into the big chair, a furtive glance. For one brief moment at the time of their marriage--whether it were a matter of days or weeks did not count--she had felt that he loved her truly, with a fire concealed by his customary self-restraint. And ever since those passionate days of happiness she had been probing him with these half-frightened glances in search of the vanished tenderness. And though she lived with him a hundred years there would still be a hope in her heart. But he was hardly glancing at her now as he asked the question, and settling back into the chair, she smiled at him a still and quiet smile, for pain may take on the gentlest seeming.
"Now, Mother, what is it?"
"I guess maybe I shouldn't have said that I couldn't sleep. It was Gus Norman's voice that waked me up."
"He talks like a roaring bull. Some of these days maybe a ring'll be put through Norman's nose and he'll be led about!"
"I heard all he said."
"Well?"
At his carelessness she fired a trifle.
"And I heard that Charlie shot a man!"
"His third man. He's starting well."
"Morgan Valentine, do you know what lies ahead of your son one of these days? Murder! I've seen him getting angry in the house and reach natural for his hip. And someday he'll get in trouble--and shoot--and kill!"
Her voice had raised very little, but her changing expression answered a similar purpose. Indeed, Morgan Valentine looked sharply at her, so astonished was he by any variation in her monotone.
"He's sowing his wild oats, that's all. No cause for worry."
"He's never worried _you_, Morgan." There was a bitter emphasis on the pronoun. "None of your children have. Seems like you don't care, sometimes."
The remarkable fact that his wife was actually complaining finally reached the understanding of Valentine, and now he watched her calmly, waiting. His quiet made her flush.
"Charlie, nor Liz, nor Louis--they none of them worry you, Morgan. You act--you act--as if Mary was your daughter, and my children didn't have your blood in 'em!"
"Mother!" murmured her husband.
"I ain't going to make a scene, Morgan," she assured him, and she gathered her robe a little closer to her as if to cover her trembling. "I'm just going to tell you a few facts. This ain't the first time that Mary has made trouble for me and mine. She--"
"You don't like her, Mother. You get a bad light in your eyes every time you think of her. I've seen that for a long while."
"I've done what's right for her," said Mrs. Valentine stubbornly. "They ain't nobody can say I haven't mothered her as much as the wild thing would let me--after her father died."
Again he was silent, and again the silence spurred her on more than words.
"And here she is paying me back. She's putting my boys in peril of their lives. That's what she's doing. And who but her has made my girl Liz unhappy?"
"Why, Mother, Mary is always kind to Liz--always doing little things for her--taught her to ride, taught her to shoot, taught her to dance, even!"
"That's it. She's always led the way. Now Liz can't do anything out of her own mind. When she's in trouble, she don't come to her own mother. She goes to Mary. If she wants advice, she goes to Mary. And half the time--half the time--her and Mary has secrets that they're keeping from me. I come on 'em whispering together, and they break off as soon as I come. Mary makes a mock of me in my own house--with my own boys--my own girl!"
He had taken his pipe from between his teeth. He held it now in his stubby fingers until the wisp of smoke that curled out of the bowl dwindled.
"Besides, what is they ahead for Liz? Who'll she ever have a chance to marry so long as Mary is around? Nobody looks at her except because they think it might make Mary smile at 'em. At parties, they only dance with Liz because maybe then Mary'll dance with 'em. They wouldn't ask Liz except to get Mary. And--and I can't stand it no longer. Ain't Liz pretty? Ain't she gentle and kind? Ain't she got winning ways? But as long as Mary is here, she'll have a secondhand life. That's what she'll have. I've watched and watched and watched, and my heart was--breaking all the time. But I wouldn't talk until tonight--but now I see where things is leading. I see what Mary is doing--she's bringing into my house--murder!"
Morgan Valentine stirred in his chair.
"She's got the whole Norman clan worked up now. They'll all be laying for Charlie. That's the kind they are. Hunt like wolves in a pack. And they'll pull dow
n Charlie--and maybe Louis. And you'll stand by and see it all--and do nothing!"
He expected her to break into tears at this point. But when her eyes remained dry, he moistened his lips and spoke.
"What d'you want me to do, Mother?"
"Send her away!"
"Send Mary away? Mother, she's the last living thing that can remind me of John. I can't turn her out. She ain't fit to be sent away. She's got to have them near her that love her, Mother."
"Men? She'll always have them."
"Now you ain't playing fair and square. You know what I mean."
"You don't have to send her away alone. Send her to her sister in Chicago. Lord knows she's asked to have Mary often enough. She'll let her study music, or something."
She left her chair and slipped to her knees before Morgan Valentine.
"Don't do that, Mother. Get up, won't you?"
"Don't you see what I want, Morgan? I want back all the things that Mary has stole from me--Charlie and Louis and Liz and--you!"
"Get up, Mother. It ain't right you should kneel to me!"
"But here's where I stay because I'm begging you for my happiness and for my boys and my girl, Morgan. Will you answer me?"
He looked down at her with a gray face, and she saw for the first time how deeply this cold man loved the girl. The pain of it made her cry out.
"In all the time we been married, it's the first thing I've asked you, Morgan!"
"Stand up," said Morgan Valentine. "I'll send Mary away!"
Chapter 3
The law of compensation works in this manner: those who give their hearts to few things give in those cases wholly and without reserve. The life of Morgan Valentine had been a smooth-flowing river until the death of his brother; that blow aged him ten years. From that day until this it seemed to him that his life had been a blank, and now another blow was to fall. For if the girl left him, she left him forever. The city would swallow her--the city and her new life. He might see her again once or twice, but after the parting he would be dead to her and she would be dead to him. He set his teeth over the pain and smiled into the face of his wife. He raised her gently to her feet, and she put her hands timidly imploring upon his shoulders.
"Will you take it to heart a whole pile, Morgan?"
"It's for the good of all of us, Mother. I've seen that for some time. You see, I been looking on Mary as a girl all these days, and here all at once she turns the corner on me, and I see that she's a full-grown woman. It kind of beats me. But--I guess she's got to go. This ain't no sort of a country for her. Back where men don't wear guns and where they don't do more'n raise their eyebrows when they get real mad--that's the place for Mary to do her campaigning. But she'll be turning these parts around here into a regular battlefield if she stays."
Mrs. Valentine caught her breath with joy.
"I hoped you'd be reasonable like this, Morg," she murmured. "But then ag'in I was afraid you'd get all gray in the face, maybe, the way you did when--"
"Well?"
"When John died."
"Mary ain't dying."
"Of course not. And it's for the best. It ain't the first time she's started trouble, and you know it. There was the boys of old Jack White; they got into a fight because Mary smiled at Billy one week and at young Jack the next. Might have been a death if their father hadn't found them, it's said. Then there was 'Bud' Akin who--"
"Hush, Mother. You're getting all excited. Besides, you ought to be asleep. Now you go back to bed and stop worrying." He stopped. The rattle of galloping horses had topped the hill and was rushing down toward the house. The cavalcade swept near.
"Maybe more trouble!" cried the poor woman, clasping her hands.
But as the riders poured past the house, a chorus of voices and laughter rose.
"That's Charlie and Louis and Liz," cried the mother, recognizing all three voices in the chorus.
"And Mary," said Valentine.
"Her, too," she added shortly, and sent a glance at her husband.
The horses were put up; the voices grew out again; they were racing for the house; a shrill peal of laughter; a clatter on the steps--the door flew open and a girl sprang in. A flash of black hair and eyes and the flushed face, and then laughter.
"You tripped me, Mary!"
"But I got here first," she was crying in triumph as a burly youth crowded through the doorway; and behind him his brother and sister were coming.
"Why, Mother--you up so late?" asked Charlie.
And the wonder of this strange event made the four faces of the young people grow sober.
"Now, Mother--" cautioned Morgan Valentine.
"Charlie!" she broke out. "What you been doing? What you been doing?"
He went to her and tried to take her in his big arms, but she fended him off and kept her head back to search his face.
"Some hound has been here talking," he muttered.
"It was no worse'n he said?" she queried. "You only shot him in the arm?"
"It was only a scratch," said Charlie. "He won't know he was touched in a couple of days."
"And, oh, Uncle Morgan!" cried Mary Valentine, taking his hand in one of hers and waving to big Charlie. "You'd have been proud if you'd seen him! I'm so proud of him. Joe Norman insulted me and Charlie--oh, Charlie, you're a man!"
She turned full upon Charlie as she spoke, with such joy shining from her face that the boy crimsoned with happiness.
"It wasn't nothing, Mary. Don't make me feel foolish," he stammered; and it was plain to be seen that he would venture a thousand times more for her sake. And in the background was his brother Louis, with a shadow on his face. As if he, too, would have been gladly a part of this ceremony of rejoicing and was determining to seize the first opportunity that came his way to strike a blow for the sake of Mary. But the voice of the mother cut in, cold and small, and withered all the happiness at the root.
"Mary Valentine," she said, "it's you that's been drawing my boy into peril. It's you!"
"Aunt Maude!" cried the girl, and ran to her; but she stopped in the act of taking her hands.
"Have I deserved it of you, Mary?" whispered the older woman. "Ain't I tried to be kind to you and is this the way you pay me back--making murderers out of my sons?"
"Mother!" cried Charlie. "I won't stand you talking like that! She didn't."
"You see?" said Mrs. Valentine sadly, turning to her husband.
"Charlie, you shut your mouth and keep still," said Morgan Valentine sternly. "Ain't you got manners with your own mother? Liz, take your mother up to bed."
The girl was taller than Mary by an inch or more and strongly built--as blonde a beauty as Mary was dark--yet when she went to her mother, she turned a glance of appeal upon her cousin, as though asking for direction. Mary slipped between her aunt and the door to which Elizabeth was leading her.
"If ever you think hard of me, Aunt Maude," she said, "I want you to tell me what it's about. And if ever I've hurt you or done you wrong, I'll go down on my knees and beg you to forgive me! Tell me now, while your heart's hot with it!"
For a moment words trembled on the lips of Mrs. Valentine, but, looking past Mary, she saw the face of her husband, bowed her head, and hurried from the room.
"Go to bed," said Morgan to his two sons. And they trooped out in silence, casting back frightened glances, not at their father, but at Mary.
She waved a smiling, careless good night to them, but the moment they were gone, her bravado vanished. She ran to her uncle and caught one of his burly hands in both of hers.
"What have I done?" she whispered. "Oh, what have I done?"
"Speaking personal," he answered, "I'm hanged if I know. Sit down, and we'll talk about it."
They sat down; she was still holding his hand, and though he made a faint effort to draw it away, she kept it strongly in her own.
"Aunt Maude--looked--as though--she hated me!"
"Stuff!"
"But she looked straight into my eyes; and wome
n have a way of understanding other women, Uncle Morgan!"
"Ah, girl, there's the trouble; you're a woman now."
"Do you mean that I've changed?"
"I dunno how to put it, Mary."
She cried out softly: "Do _you_ think that I've changed?"
"I knew your father before you."
A little silence fell between them in which both of them asked many questions and were answered. At length the rancher began speaking again, slowly.
"If you was a man, Mary, you'd be a fine man. But you ain't a man."
She waited.
"You're about nine tenths woman, I guess, with just enough man in you for spice."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Instead of spice I might say deviltry."
"Oh!"
"I've got worse things than this to say to you. When you were a girl, Mary, I took all your mischief for granted."
"Yes, I've been very bad."
"Not bad. But you were always hunting for action. Same's a boy does. You got into lots of scrapes, but you come out ag'in just the way a boy does. But all at once you changed. You come pop out of a door one day, and you weren't a girl any more; you were a woman. That was when things started to pop. You see, nobody understands a woman."
"Except you, Uncle Morgan."
"Kindly leave me out. I don't know a thing about 'em."
"But you know everything about me."
"Not a thing, hardly. For instance, I don't know whether you just can't help making eyes at young gents, or whether you do it on purpose."
"Is that the cause of all the trouble?"
She dropped his hand.
"You see it's the way I told you. I don't know a thing about you."
"Do _you_ believe what people say?"
"But tell me, aren't they right?"
She gasped.
"I thought so. You're turned into a man-eater, Mary."
"I think you're making fun of me."
"Me? Never!"